


Five Conversations Glorfindel Had Returning to Middle-earth

by Maat (maat_seshat)



Category: The Silmarillion - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maat_seshat/pseuds/Maat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glorfindel has too many--or too few--places to belong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Conversations Glorfindel Had Returning to Middle-earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IdleLeaves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleLeaves/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [格罗芬德尔回中土的五段对话](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11090700) by [tatyafinwe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatyafinwe/pseuds/tatyafinwe)



> I've always been fascinated by the idea of Glorfindel's return, so thank you for giving me a chance to explore that!

**  
_5\. Elrond_   
**

Idril's grandson looked nothing like her.

Glorfindel fought and conquered a wash of homesickness. Idril's quiet confidence in the affairs of Middle-earth had been a breath of fresh air out of Mandos's halls, a connection to the world they had lost untainted by death or despair. Glorfindel had not realized how much he had anticipated that peaceful certainty in the face of her grandson after the drawn and weary faces of Gil-galad's kingdom preparing for war.

Elrond's gaze rested steadily upon him as Glorfindel drew the grey horse to a halt beside the willow tree and dismounted. He met the other man's dark eyes and wondered what Elrond was seeing in him. Was Elrond hoping for the same miracles out of one who had seen the Trees that Glorfindel sought from the descendant of his liege lady? The horse nickered softly at the tension, and Glorfindel patted her soothingly before inclining his head in a half-bow.

"Elrond Half-Elven," Glorfindel said clearly in the new Lindon dialect of Sindarin, "I come by way of Númenor. Gil-galad bid me greet you."

"We receive your aid with gratitude," Elrond replied, equally formal, but it was not until he continued in Sindarin that Glorfindel realized the words had been Quenya. "Despair is too easy when we try to build a haven from the current ills. A reminder that the Valar have not forgotten us is welcome."

Glorfindel hid a wince. "I--" He hesitated. "I do not come with the power of the Valar, only their permission." He watched, confused, as some of the darkness on Elrond's face slid away, until Elrond finally smiled wryly, but with genuine amusement. Glorfindel frowned. "Did I say something?" he asked warily. "There has been some language shift in the years since I lived here."

Elrond's smiled broadened. "No, your Sindarin is excellent. I merely," he cocked his head, clearly searching for words. "I merely forget sometimes, how _active_ the Valar once were in the affairs of the Noldor. We have not seen them in their rage here in a very long time."

Glorfindel now blinked. "I see." He looked at Elrond anew. A little light of Aman sparkled in his eyes, residue of his childhood with the Silmaril, but the death Glorfindel read there was not the cursed death of the Noldor who still believed despite forgiveness in the Doom. He smiled a little fiercely.

Elrond laughed, finally, and Glorfindel saw Idril's confidence in his face. "Come," he said, "let me introduce you to some others here now."

It was not precisely Idril's confidence, Glorfindel decided, as he mounted the horse to return to Gil-galad's capital. It was the confidence of one who still had work to do.

 **  
_4\. Gil-galad_   
**

Glorfindel finished unpacking his few belongings quickly in the small apartment Cirdan had provided him. The rooms must have been designed by one of Sirion's former inhabitants, because the architecture echoed that of Gondolin, enough to stir old memories. He trailed his fingers down the smoothed stone of the wall, until a brisk knock on the door had him turning to open it.

The High King waited outside. "May I enter?"

Glorfindel stood aside in welcome. "I am afraid I am not so settled as to be able to offer refreshment," he said, a half-apology.

Gil-galad smiled. "Please do not worry. I should return soon to discussions with the Númenórean delegate."

"I see," Glorfindel said. For lack of anything better to do, he gestured towards the chairs. "Can you sit for a little?"

Gil-galad nodded. "Thank you."

Glorfindel settled himself opposite Gil-galad and wondered why he had come.

"Thank you," Gil-galad repeated. "For returning," he added at Glorfindel's confused frown. "I know it is no small thing to leave the Undying Lands and court second death."

"That is," Glorfindel paused, unsure how to explain, "not why I came."

Gil-galad's smile flashed again, tighter but understanding, as well. "For that I truly thank you," he said for the third time. "There is a despair spreading amongst the Noldor who know now, a suspicion that all our crafts must come to naught."

Glorfindel flashed upon Gondolin in her glory, then burning as she died, but in his memory her beauty outshone even Tirion upon Túna, and he would not have wished his city never-made even knowing her end. He could not find the words for his feeling, though, and finally answered truly if inadequately, "They will never be naught."

Gil-galad's voice when he spoke was sad but equally certain. "I hope we can remember that in the coming days."

 **  
_3\. Círdan_   
**

Círdan stood waiting when Glorfindel disembarked from the Númenórean ship at Mithlond's harbor and trembled a bit at the sudden firmness of dry land after days at sea. Glorfindel paused once, concentrating on his balance, before raising his head to greet Círdan. Círdan spoke first.

"Welcome back to Middle-earth," he said calmly. A new and strange fire gleamed in his eyes, and Glorfindel nearly frowned before catching himself and responding to Círdan's words.

"Thank you," he said. "I have missed it," he added, realizing only as he spoke that the words were entirely true.

Círdan's half-smile said that he understood what Glorfindel had not said. "It binds tightly," he agreed. He stepped back to allow another Sinda carrying boxes of iron ingots to pass. "Come," he gestured, "let me show you to the place where you will stay."

Glorfindel resettled his pack more securely on his shoulders and fell into step beside Círdan. He looked about them as they left the docks. "Mithlond is a beautiful city."

"A strange blend of the Falas and Elwing's settlement at Sirion," Círdan explained. "We all began anew after the sinking of Beleriand."

Glorfindel nodded understanding and set aside once more the knowledge that he would never again see the lands that he had lost.

"I stayed at the bidding of the Lord of Waters," Círdan said suddenly. "After Olwë and his people left and Elwë was not to be found, I was ready to leave this world entirely. But he bid me stay, and I did."

Glorfindel looked at him, uncertain of his purpose.

"Now, though," Círdan fell silent, looking around the city, and Glorfindel followed his gaze to the oddly appealing mingling of architectures from Gondolin, Doriath, and Falas that lined the streets of Mithlond, this one blended city of divided Lindon. Glorfindel found it comforting after the stark differences along the shores, north and south, of the Gulf of Lhûn. "This earth pulls me in. Demands service for as long as I have it to give." His eyes when he caught Glorfindel's gaze still held that strangely Fëanorian fire, but it was harnessed to illuminate the secrets not of crafts but of persons. Glorfindel shivered a little at the feeling of being seen too deeply.

"Perhaps longer," Glorfindel murmured in response, and it seemed the right thing to say.

 **  
_2\. Gandalf_   
**

Glorfindel gazed out at the vision of Númenor on the horizon. The haze between them drifted in lazy patterns that Glofindel tried to see as the products of weather and chance rather than Manwë's sculpting. He shook his head and tore his eyes from the horizon when he could not, focusing instead upon the subtle trembling of the dock under his feet as the Telerin sailors completed their preparations for departure. Their movements were unhurried; the preparations were nearly complete and their time was more than sufficient for the short trip from Tol Eressëa to Númenor.

The rhythmic trembling beneath his feet changed slightly, and Glorfindel turned to find Olórin approaching him. He nodded in welcome before returning to his contemplation of the sea. The sea gleamed greyish-blue in the early morning sunlight.

"I am grateful you are going," Olórin said, strangely abrupt.

Glorfindel looked at him quickly. His appearance was unchanged: grey raiments like those of Nienna, posture strikingly upright but softened by the gentle welcome in his face. His eyes were unusually pensive, though. Glorfindel returned to the preparations on the dock, trying not to see Ulmo's people swirling around the ship. He tried instead to watch the unspoken camraderie amongst the Teleri. Someone began singing, a quiet fluting song that if Glorfindel concentrated he could understand as a praise of the fair morning. The pitch and the way it harmonized with the waves reminded him of Gondolin's fountains, even if the words did not. "I am glad," he answered Olórin honestly, "though I cannot understand why."

"Why are you going?" Olórin asked, instead of answering the implied question.

Glorfindel offered the same answer he had given the Valar. "I can help."

"And so you should go," Olórin agreed. "But why are you going?"

Glorfindel smiled, wry, and scolded himself for thinking that Olórin would let him only half answer anything. Olórin never had allowed verbal evasions, and he knew his companions well enough to catch them all now. "I need to help," Glorfindel admitted, confident Olórin would ask the question again but curious about what he would say.

Instead, Olórin nodded. "I am grateful you are going," he repeated and raised his arm to wave farewell.

Glorfindel watched him go.

 **  
_1\. Fingon_   
**

Footsteps swished in the sand behind Glorfindel, just loud enough to be heard over the slosh of the waves. He was grateful for the courtesy, for he had not expected company in the small cove.

He shifted sideways automatically to make room for the newcomer, only to blink up at the face of Fingon. "My lord."

Fingon shook his head. "Not here," he corrected, sinking into a cross-legged seat.

Glorfindel turned back to the sea. "You have heard the news the Teleri brought back from Númenor." It was not a question.

"Morgoth's servant on the rise," Fingon acknowledged. "Ereinion's alliance seems sound, and they say the Edain are confident."

Glorfindel frowned at the smudge of Númenor, only faintly visible to the far east from this southward-facing side of Tol Eressëa. "And yet the High King sent to us for help."

Fingon shrugged beside him, the movement more sensed than seen. When Glorfindel turned back, Fingon was not even facing Númenor, was merely sketching lines in the sand. "He is High King. He would not deserve the title did he not summon every resource he has to the task."

"Valinor is a perilous resource," Glorfindel said with a quick glance westward, a little surprised at his own skepticism. He had not thought he had uncertainties not soothed away by the House of Mandos until the call from Middle-earth stirred them to life.

"It is," Fingon agreed. Glorfindel's gaze dropped to the sand once more, and the quick movement of Fingon's hand seemed to finish tracing the contours of cliffs before an equally quick movement packed down the sand once more. Under Fingon's fingers the shape of waves seemed beginning to take form. Glorfindel turned back to the sea, and they sat in silence for a while.

"I cannot listen from afar," Glorfindel admitted finally. Perhaps the peace of Mandos was not as permanent as he had once believed it. Perhaps he was no longer content to wait for one who sought it still in those dark halls.

"Perhaps your peace requires action," Fingon suggested gently, a strange continuation of Glorfindel's thoughts.

"The Valar will permit me to go this time," Glorfindel said. It had not been said in so many words, but the permission had been implicit in Nienna's invitation to speak to them on the topic again.

"They will," Fingon agreed.

Glorfindel looked at him again, and Fingon sat quietly under the close scrutiny. "You will not go," he realized, then shook his head. "No. More than that." He struggled for words. It was not wish, or want, or try, and it had nothing to do with the Valar who would probably never be willing to return to Middle-earth a kinslayer whose release from Mandos had astonished all but Nienna, Vairë, and Mandos himself. "You do not need to go." And Glorfindel did.

Fingon smiled finally. "My part of the Song is here, now," he said. "Yours I think remains there."

**Author's Note:**

> I've played a little fast and loose with the metaphysics of Glorfindel's return, but since Tolkien didn't really have it pinned down himself, I claim artistic license. :)


End file.
